The Other Side of The Creek
written by: Dawn DeBraal
They tell me I will be one hundred and two tomorrow. Imagine that, over a century and then some. I never would have believed I’d live this long. I didn’t take care of myself, treating my body like I had another in the closet to change into.
These days, I don’t go far; I live in assisted living, propelled by a wheelchair. I go as far as Daisy or one of my caregivers take me. Sometimes, it’s to the day room. On wonderful sunny days, they try to get me outdoors. Those are my favorite days because I can hear the birds chirping and the gurgling water from a fountain in the garden that someone donated. I close my eyes, remembering when I was a girl sitting by the creek in my backyard. My brother Billy and I would catch frogs or crayfish to play with them, setting them free when we finished.
I open my eyes and see five of us in wheelchairs around the fountain among the birdfeeders hanging from the bushes, enjoying the out-of-doors. They used to have an aviary indoors, which was too depressing because we identified with the captured birds behind glass.
My daughter is coming, she is eighty years old. I can’t tell you how strange it is to see an old woman walk in the door, knowing she is my eldest child. Sandy asks me things like, do I need, do I want? Yes, I need to get out of here, but I know I can’t take care of myself. Yes, I want to go into the kitchen and bake my warm milk sponge cake, but they will never let me into the kitchen, so instead, I ask to go home with her.
“Oh, Mom, I wished I could do that, but I can’t get you into the car or the house alone.” I sigh because I can’t do these things for myself either. I shouldn’t expect her to do this for me, but I can dream.
It’s cold. Daisy comes out with a shawl and puts it over my shoulders. It reminds me of my mother and a hug. The sun touches my face, and I am conscious of the skin cancer they remove from my nose every year or so and the warning to stay out of the sun. I don’t care anymore. Let cancer take me. It would release me from the confines of this hellish place, where people who are worse than me but much younger spend what seems like an eternity.
We are wheeled into the dining room, where soft music plays. I hate this song. It plays at the same time every day, during supper hour. A tray with soft foods is placed before me. I sit across from Tom because no one else wants to. He has trouble chewing and often spits his food out of his mouth. I have learned not to look at him.
Daisy comes along, opening the plastic containers that hold my meal. I have fruits, yogurt, mashed potatoes, and a small piece of meatloaf with congealed gravy. Everything is lukewarm. I crave hot soup or something I must blow on to cool down before taking a sip.
My shaky hand picks up the spoon, scooping up the mashed potatoes, and I put some in my mouth. They are instant, and I am sorely disappointed. I know it is hard to peel hundreds of potatoes. It is easier to pour flakes from a box into boiling water. Such a little thing to wish; longing for fresh food can set me off.
Tom coughs and a pile of food comes from his mouth and onto his plate. I avert my eyes in a different direction, giving him dignity and privacy.
“Tom, are you all right?” Daisy asks. He nods his head and takes another stab at eating. Daisy comes around with hot towels to wipe our faces. They used to do this on airplanes back in the day, and I love the feeling of warmth on my face. I long for ice cream, but I am on a special diet. I am a diabetic, and the bracelet on my wrist warns the staff not to give me sugared desserts.
“Who cares? I’m one hundred and two. I must die of something!” I think to myself. I shouldn’t complain because this is the finest elderly housing in the area.
I woke up on my one-hundred-and-second birthday. Daisy comes in with the balloon. I must suffer the indignity of having it tied to my wheelchair so everyone knows I am today’s guest of honor. After lunch, the staff comes out with a giant birthday cake. They handed me a non-sugar cupcake with a single candle. Since COVID, we don’t blow the candles on the cake anymore. I blow out the candle, and everyone claps. The aids prop the cake in front of me and take pictures, allowing a newspaper reporter from a local paper to take my picture.
“Smile,” the reporter says, and I give it my best. “You’ll be in the paper this week,” she smiles sweetly. The cake is cut into squares and put on paper plates. The staff runs cake pieces to most of the residents except those like me wearing blue bracelets. Most everyone is smiling except the birthday girl. I don’t even get to eat my cake!
The second shift comes in, preparing us for bedtime. I am tucked in bed like a two-year-old, a hundred-and-two-year-old, rather. Nancy asks what it feels like to be one hundred and two. I laugh and tell her I must be bad because only the good die young. She laughs at my joke, making sure I am comfortable before she leaves. It is only eight in the evening. No television is allowed, only reading, but even with the big print books, I can no longer see well enough to read, so I give up and practice deep breathing in the dark. I hear the others being prepared for bedtime, some fighting it, and some going willingly. I pray for sleep; it takes me away from this place while I dream of being young again, running barefoot through the fields, down to the creek with Billy. He’s gone now, and I miss my brother. I know I am dreaming because Billy comes to me and takes my hand. I smile. We walk into the cold water, and he splashes me, squealing; I kick water back at him.
“Come on!” Billy holds his hand out to me, and I take it. I cough a bit, feeling a weight on my chest, and realize I am being taken to the other side. I won’t see my picture on the paper, but that’s okay.
At long last, it is my turn to leave this world. I am ready. I confidently take my brother’s hand as he helps me cross over to the other side of the creek.
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